(no subject)
I Believe In Your Victory
Inception: Eames
1700 words
PG
Playing around with more of 'M' from James Bond as Eames's mom. Contains 007 crossovers, general wtf-ery, and more Americanisms that you can probably count. (Do they have a different name for peanut butter in England? These are the questions I think about at night.)
The first memory Eames has of his mum is of her sighing deeply with lips pursed tight, like it’s a struggle to hold back her disapproval.
*
Every once in a while, someone stops by their home to meet with Eames’s mum. It doesn’t happen often but when it does, Eames goes into the kitchen, takes a jar of peanut butter and a knife, and then hoists himself up onto one of the stools. He slowly scrapes out chunks by the knife-full and just watches their visitor. Some talk to him; none ever ask his name.
This one stands out from the mess of bumbling nervousness that usually walks through the front door. He’s wearing a suit and trenchcoat and walks in like he owns the place. He reminds Eames of his mum, actually.
Eames gets his peanut butter and knife. The man watches him.
“I imagine we share a bit of the same sentiments toward your mother,” he says in a polished accent.
“That’s inappropriate to say to a child,” says Eames.
The man laughs. He sits on the arm of the sofa, legs straight and crossed at the ankles, arms hugged over his chest. “So it is,” he agrees. “While you’re here, have you got any advice for me?”
Eames pauses, the knife hovering in midair as he thinks. The man is smiling like most people do when they encounter Eames, but he’s lacking the usual mannerisms of an adult indulging a child. This is why Eames decides to give an honest answer.
“If you’ve done something wrong, aim for resolution, not absolution,” Eames finally says. “Absolution will come later, if you figure out how to resolve the situation in the first place.”
“Impressive.”
“I don’t think she’s ever impressed with anything,” he cautions, taking another lick of peanut butter.
“I don’t think she’s looking to be impressed at all,” the man says mildly. He’s got a smooth, baritone voice, something Eames knows will eventually happen to him as well, but he feels far removed from it at this moment. “She’s looking to -- ”
The door to mum’s office opens and the man stops speaking at once. Both of their heads turn to look.
“Bond. I received word that you were lying at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
The man looks impeccable, like he’s just come from dinner in a warm, well-lit restaurant, exactly the opposite of a pitch-dark ocean. “You heard wrong,” he says, and Eames believes him whole-heartedly.
“Pity,” she says evenly. She turns and disappears into the study.
When the man stands up and says, “Wish me luck,” Eames nods.
*
Secondary school is turning out to be a cluster of fights, one after another, most of them led by a boy named Kenneth. Some of the time, Eames gives as good as he gets. The vast majority of the time, he’s outnumbered four to one. Kenneth, already on hovering on the cusp of expulsion, may be crap at academics but he’s irritatingly cunning when it comes to bruising Eames up.
Eames doesn’t tell his mother. Not out of shame or fear -- it’s just something he feels fiercely private about. She seems to understand this in her usual innate way, and doesn’t ask about it except for the first time he comes home with a noticeable cut on his face.
“Pugilism has its value, but there are cleaner ways of taking care of things,” she says as she marches him to her room. She rips open a package of cotton buds and slams the drawer shut -- each sound makes Eames flinch a bit, but when she dabs alcohol onto Eames’s forehead, it’s with a gentle hand.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t fight back?”
“I’m saying that people often forget they have options besides brute force at their disposal. You're a smart boy, so don't be stupid and rely on your fists. Be calculating. Weigh your choices.” Her voice has gone soft, almost vague, like it’s not him she’s speaking to at all. Eames looks up at her, but she’s studying his forehead.
When she tosses the cotton into the wastebasket, she has her usual briskness back. “If that boy isn’t expelled tomorrow, I must have some words with the headmaster.”
This phrase, in mum’s vocabulary, tends to have a rather fluid meaning.
“I can take care of it,” Eames says, because saying ‘it’ instead of ‘myself’ sounds more mature, somehow. What’s less mature are the thoughts in his head, of holding Kenneth down and swinging fists into his face over and over again.
She exhales in a quick burst, seemingly out of annoyance. “Then show me,” she says, “without getting your hands dirty.”
Eames holds her gaze like a staring contest -- it’s only in the past few months that he’s been able to do that -- before nodding shortly. One thing about her is that she never brushes off his declarations as childhood fancy; he’s learned long ago not to exaggerate or lie. Actually, that’s not strictly true either. He’s learned long ago how to tell who will accept lies and exaggeration as truth and who will not, and he only perpetrates them to the former group.
For the rest of the term, he goes to school, sits in class, does his work, smokes behind buildings, and avoids Kenneth, but most of his focus is on observing the headmaster. Once he confirms that every day after school, the headmaster disappears into the nearest toilets and reappears ten minutes later, he directs his energy toward procuring several ‘cleaning’ signs from the custodian's closet.
It’s a Friday when Eames goes around the school and hangs a sign on almost all the toilets in the building. He then purposely loiters outside the ones in the east wing. Kenneth finds him there and pushes him through the door so hard that Eames stumbles and catches his face on a sink.
“Good afternoon, Kenneth,” Eames grunts against the grimy tiles. He’s almost giddy when Kenneth turns him over, body thrumming strangely in anticipation of getting hit.
When the headmaster, having been re-routed to the only open toilets in the entire school, comes through the door, he’s greeted with the scene of Eames being collared by Kenneth up against the wall, blood running out of his nose and smeared onto Kenneth’s fists.
Eames grins. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and sees a wolfish smile with red teeth.
*
A-levels are finished. Cambridge is a few months away. Eames’s plane ticket for France is in eight hours. Ostensibly a vacation, although he has no return ticket and no plans to purchase one.
He’d initially thought about going through the window to avoid seeing her, then pinned that method as too predictable and chosen the front door instead. So of course she’s waiting there, sipping at a glass of scotch. He wonders how she is always one step ahead of him at all times. It really is amazing.
“Without so much as a goodbye, then,” she states.
“I was going to call.”
“No, you weren’t.” She makes it sound like an order.
“I wasn’t,” Eames repeats.
“Of course you weren’t. I would have been highly disappointed if you did,” she says, and suddenly her tone makes sense. “You were going to write. A postcard, with no return address, routed through as many locations as possible.”
For some reason, Eames feels a burst of affection for his mother. He nods silently.
“Eames,” she says.
“Mum,” he prompts.
“Address them to ‘M’ lest you want me to drag you back here myself.” She kisses his cheek, then ruffles his hair, her one sure sign of affection.
*
Sunlight is hell on his eyes after spending however many hours or days in an underground makeshift jail cell. Eames stumbles around the marketplace for a good five minutes. He has no idea what country he’s in, let alone what city, but he does appreciate the fact that this is the sort of setting where he can be released from pitch black solitary confinement and straight into a bright marketplace. He swipes some kind of fruit from one of the stalls and bites into it as he walks, peel and all. Left, left, right, left, and it's a pleasant surprise to find the canvas bag still stashed into the hole behind a loose rock in the wall.
The past week or so is a blur, having woken up on a rickety bed with no memory of how he’d gotten there, and then ten minutes later being pursued by a group of rather unsavory characters wielding weapons. He’d managed to hide the bag before being caught and dragged underground, locked up for some reason or other, and now released for some reason or other.
He digs through the bag, picks out a phone, and dials a number.
“It’s Eames,” he says when someone picks up.
Another pause, and then a new layer of static: “Do you have any self-preservation skills at all? I suppose you think I should be congratulating you on the fact that you still have both legs.”
“And all other body parts.” He’s missing a sliver of his pinky toe, but that is negligible.
“How wonderful,” she says dryly. “Truly a mark of an accomplished man. What the hell have you been getting yourself into?”
Eames closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sun. “What do you mean? I’m just finishing up at Cambridge.”
“I can have you recaptured in less than three minutes.”
“I’ve become a dream thief,” Eames says.
“Of course. Heaven forbid you work for the treasury,” M says without missing a beat. “You haven’t called in months. I speak to 00s on a more regular basis.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems you’re getting a bit sentimental in your old age.”
“And it seems as though I haven’t done a good enough job in squashing your cheek. Consider it my one true regret.”
“Noted.”
Eames grins as she mutters, “Stupid boy,” the undercurrent of fondness belying her words.
*
The first memory Eames has of his mum is of her sighing deeply with lips pursed tight, like it’s a struggle to hold back her disapproval -- but Eames can identify it now as something else entirely.
Inception: Eames
1700 words
PG
Playing around with more of 'M' from James Bond as Eames's mom. Contains 007 crossovers, general wtf-ery, and more Americanisms that you can probably count. (Do they have a different name for peanut butter in England? These are the questions I think about at night.)
The first memory Eames has of his mum is of her sighing deeply with lips pursed tight, like it’s a struggle to hold back her disapproval.
*
Every once in a while, someone stops by their home to meet with Eames’s mum. It doesn’t happen often but when it does, Eames goes into the kitchen, takes a jar of peanut butter and a knife, and then hoists himself up onto one of the stools. He slowly scrapes out chunks by the knife-full and just watches their visitor. Some talk to him; none ever ask his name.
This one stands out from the mess of bumbling nervousness that usually walks through the front door. He’s wearing a suit and trenchcoat and walks in like he owns the place. He reminds Eames of his mum, actually.
Eames gets his peanut butter and knife. The man watches him.
“I imagine we share a bit of the same sentiments toward your mother,” he says in a polished accent.
“That’s inappropriate to say to a child,” says Eames.
The man laughs. He sits on the arm of the sofa, legs straight and crossed at the ankles, arms hugged over his chest. “So it is,” he agrees. “While you’re here, have you got any advice for me?”
Eames pauses, the knife hovering in midair as he thinks. The man is smiling like most people do when they encounter Eames, but he’s lacking the usual mannerisms of an adult indulging a child. This is why Eames decides to give an honest answer.
“If you’ve done something wrong, aim for resolution, not absolution,” Eames finally says. “Absolution will come later, if you figure out how to resolve the situation in the first place.”
“Impressive.”
“I don’t think she’s ever impressed with anything,” he cautions, taking another lick of peanut butter.
“I don’t think she’s looking to be impressed at all,” the man says mildly. He’s got a smooth, baritone voice, something Eames knows will eventually happen to him as well, but he feels far removed from it at this moment. “She’s looking to -- ”
The door to mum’s office opens and the man stops speaking at once. Both of their heads turn to look.
“Bond. I received word that you were lying at the bottom of the Atlantic.”
The man looks impeccable, like he’s just come from dinner in a warm, well-lit restaurant, exactly the opposite of a pitch-dark ocean. “You heard wrong,” he says, and Eames believes him whole-heartedly.
“Pity,” she says evenly. She turns and disappears into the study.
When the man stands up and says, “Wish me luck,” Eames nods.
*
Secondary school is turning out to be a cluster of fights, one after another, most of them led by a boy named Kenneth. Some of the time, Eames gives as good as he gets. The vast majority of the time, he’s outnumbered four to one. Kenneth, already on hovering on the cusp of expulsion, may be crap at academics but he’s irritatingly cunning when it comes to bruising Eames up.
Eames doesn’t tell his mother. Not out of shame or fear -- it’s just something he feels fiercely private about. She seems to understand this in her usual innate way, and doesn’t ask about it except for the first time he comes home with a noticeable cut on his face.
“Pugilism has its value, but there are cleaner ways of taking care of things,” she says as she marches him to her room. She rips open a package of cotton buds and slams the drawer shut -- each sound makes Eames flinch a bit, but when she dabs alcohol onto Eames’s forehead, it’s with a gentle hand.
“Are you saying I shouldn’t fight back?”
“I’m saying that people often forget they have options besides brute force at their disposal. You're a smart boy, so don't be stupid and rely on your fists. Be calculating. Weigh your choices.” Her voice has gone soft, almost vague, like it’s not him she’s speaking to at all. Eames looks up at her, but she’s studying his forehead.
When she tosses the cotton into the wastebasket, she has her usual briskness back. “If that boy isn’t expelled tomorrow, I must have some words with the headmaster.”
This phrase, in mum’s vocabulary, tends to have a rather fluid meaning.
“I can take care of it,” Eames says, because saying ‘it’ instead of ‘myself’ sounds more mature, somehow. What’s less mature are the thoughts in his head, of holding Kenneth down and swinging fists into his face over and over again.
She exhales in a quick burst, seemingly out of annoyance. “Then show me,” she says, “without getting your hands dirty.”
Eames holds her gaze like a staring contest -- it’s only in the past few months that he’s been able to do that -- before nodding shortly. One thing about her is that she never brushes off his declarations as childhood fancy; he’s learned long ago not to exaggerate or lie. Actually, that’s not strictly true either. He’s learned long ago how to tell who will accept lies and exaggeration as truth and who will not, and he only perpetrates them to the former group.
For the rest of the term, he goes to school, sits in class, does his work, smokes behind buildings, and avoids Kenneth, but most of his focus is on observing the headmaster. Once he confirms that every day after school, the headmaster disappears into the nearest toilets and reappears ten minutes later, he directs his energy toward procuring several ‘cleaning’ signs from the custodian's closet.
It’s a Friday when Eames goes around the school and hangs a sign on almost all the toilets in the building. He then purposely loiters outside the ones in the east wing. Kenneth finds him there and pushes him through the door so hard that Eames stumbles and catches his face on a sink.
“Good afternoon, Kenneth,” Eames grunts against the grimy tiles. He’s almost giddy when Kenneth turns him over, body thrumming strangely in anticipation of getting hit.
When the headmaster, having been re-routed to the only open toilets in the entire school, comes through the door, he’s greeted with the scene of Eames being collared by Kenneth up against the wall, blood running out of his nose and smeared onto Kenneth’s fists.
Eames grins. He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror and sees a wolfish smile with red teeth.
*
A-levels are finished. Cambridge is a few months away. Eames’s plane ticket for France is in eight hours. Ostensibly a vacation, although he has no return ticket and no plans to purchase one.
He’d initially thought about going through the window to avoid seeing her, then pinned that method as too predictable and chosen the front door instead. So of course she’s waiting there, sipping at a glass of scotch. He wonders how she is always one step ahead of him at all times. It really is amazing.
“Without so much as a goodbye, then,” she states.
“I was going to call.”
“No, you weren’t.” She makes it sound like an order.
“I wasn’t,” Eames repeats.
“Of course you weren’t. I would have been highly disappointed if you did,” she says, and suddenly her tone makes sense. “You were going to write. A postcard, with no return address, routed through as many locations as possible.”
For some reason, Eames feels a burst of affection for his mother. He nods silently.
“Eames,” she says.
“Mum,” he prompts.
“Address them to ‘M’ lest you want me to drag you back here myself.” She kisses his cheek, then ruffles his hair, her one sure sign of affection.
*
Sunlight is hell on his eyes after spending however many hours or days in an underground makeshift jail cell. Eames stumbles around the marketplace for a good five minutes. He has no idea what country he’s in, let alone what city, but he does appreciate the fact that this is the sort of setting where he can be released from pitch black solitary confinement and straight into a bright marketplace. He swipes some kind of fruit from one of the stalls and bites into it as he walks, peel and all. Left, left, right, left, and it's a pleasant surprise to find the canvas bag still stashed into the hole behind a loose rock in the wall.
The past week or so is a blur, having woken up on a rickety bed with no memory of how he’d gotten there, and then ten minutes later being pursued by a group of rather unsavory characters wielding weapons. He’d managed to hide the bag before being caught and dragged underground, locked up for some reason or other, and now released for some reason or other.
He digs through the bag, picks out a phone, and dials a number.
“It’s Eames,” he says when someone picks up.
Another pause, and then a new layer of static: “Do you have any self-preservation skills at all? I suppose you think I should be congratulating you on the fact that you still have both legs.”
“And all other body parts.” He’s missing a sliver of his pinky toe, but that is negligible.
“How wonderful,” she says dryly. “Truly a mark of an accomplished man. What the hell have you been getting yourself into?”
Eames closes his eyes and turns his face toward the sun. “What do you mean? I’m just finishing up at Cambridge.”
“I can have you recaptured in less than three minutes.”
“I’ve become a dream thief,” Eames says.
“Of course. Heaven forbid you work for the treasury,” M says without missing a beat. “You haven’t called in months. I speak to 00s on a more regular basis.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems you’re getting a bit sentimental in your old age.”
“And it seems as though I haven’t done a good enough job in squashing your cheek. Consider it my one true regret.”
“Noted.”
Eames grins as she mutters, “Stupid boy,” the undercurrent of fondness belying her words.
*
The first memory Eames has of his mum is of her sighing deeply with lips pursed tight, like it’s a struggle to hold back her disapproval -- but Eames can identify it now as something else entirely.